


there is no such beauty as where you belong

by doespenguinsisgay



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, quinn is a ballet dancer and brady is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 14:50:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16348763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doespenguinsisgay/pseuds/doespenguinsisgay
Summary: Considering the fact that he spends a good amount of his life at this theater, observing the constant string of rehearsals, Brady has witnessed plenty of ballet dancers honing their craft, performing long and intricate routines, but none of them even come close to this dancer. He lifts up onto his toes, every muscle in his legs on full display through his thin athletic tights, grace dripping from his fingertips. Brady forgets how to breathe.(or, quinn is a ballet dancer and brady works tech)





	there is no such beauty as where you belong

**Author's Note:**

> psa if you or someone you know is mentioned above, please click away now !! it will be much better for everyone involved.
> 
> hey y'all i'm back with another lil smth smth.. this was supposed to be like 1000 words and then ya know shit happens eheheh,, i am super excited about the concept i love excuses to gush about my sweet boys in grave detail lol
> 
> anyway i hope u enjoy this bad boy i'm pretty proud of it, if i'm being honest,, lmao aight i'll shut up and let u read now, hope u like it! thanks for reading xx
> 
> title from the road home - stephen paulus(it is a beautiful choral piece that i imagine as the track for quinn's solo piece, [you should give it a listen!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LbwhSP3ZIq4))

Going into this whole thing, Brady hadn’t known shit about stage tech. He knew the spotlights and he knew the microphones, but even his knowledge in those areas had been limited, to say the least. Nevertheless he needed volunteer hours and his RA at the time was a musical theater major, so he’d gotten an in with the stage manager his second semester of his freshman year.

 

Brady has a pretty good handle on things now, he knows his way around the soundboard and the light panel, operating pretty smoothly as long as the crew knows what they’re doing. Enough so that they get through shows and lectures and concerts without breaking a sweat. Well, maybe not without breaking a sweat, considering the amount of crushing anxiety and tears that tech week brings with it, as well as each regularly timed disaster that seems to occur before every opening night, but they get it done.

 

He’s only been working tech for a little less than two years, but with the new semesters had come the loss of the majority of their seasoned vets. At the end of last year, Hannah- who had been pretty much the savior of Brady’s job at the theater since he’d gotten there- had pulled him aside during teardown after the last show of the year, a few weeks before graduation.

 

“So, this is my last teardown.” She had begun conversationally, leaning against the stage as she watched a few freshman deconstruct what Brady had thought might have been a library backdrop. Brady had swallowed and nodded, all too aware of this. He had been convinced that the place would fall apart and go up in flames once Hannah left, she’d been the driving force in the back of the theater for four years. 

 

He said as much, and he can still remember her laugh at that, bittersweet and floaty. “That’s why I think you should take the reigns next year. You know what you’re doing and the crew trusts you. Plus, I know you can handle it.” She’d swept her long blonde hair over her shoulder and smiled at him, and Brady remembered why he had been borderline in love with her for his first semester on crew. Luckily, he’d gotten over that after the first encounter that he’d had with her girlfriend. “Think about it.” She’d patted him on the shoulder and hoisted herself up onto the stage to help with the heavy lifting.

 

At the time, he’d been honored that she believed he could lead tech, even though he had been, and still is, not too confident in his abilities. Now, though, as he unlocks the stage door and ducks out of the cold at the ungodly hour that it is, because he had promised he would finish marking up the script by Wednesday, he wishes he had known what he was getting himself into. He had fallen asleep after his five o’clock class and slept until nine, so instead of arriving at six like he’d planned, it’s almost ten.

 

The theater is silent at this time of night, the air lulled to a stillness that feels so delicate that Brady steps carefully, but the squeak of his sandals against the tiled floor rings through the hollow building, the rattling of his keys shatter the thickening, peaceful calm. He winds his way up the stairs, carpet fraying along the edges of each step, into the darkness of the light booth, illuminated only by the defined glow of the soundboard, a complex series of red, green, and yellow. Brady can see well enough, so he doesn’t bother reaching for the light switch.   
  
He settles down in the chair, propping a clipboard in his lap. Inky pages sit atop the wooden slate in a thick stack. He flips to the place in the script that he had left off, removing the pink sticky note from its home on the corner of the page. Brady clicks his pen, continuing to jot notes down on the script and its corresponding post-it notes, assigning them a switch or button on the soundboard.   
  
He hears the hum of the stage lights before he sees them, a low buzzing that pierces the peace he had worked himself back into, weaving his movement into the harmony of the building. He watches through the window, spray paint still in the corners of the glass from what he’d heard described as 2010’s biggest afterparty. A boy, no older than him, appears in the wing, clutching what looks to be a CD as he strides forward, messenger bag slung over his shoulder.   
  
The boy walks with a graceful, confident posture, setting his things down near the front of the stage, where the nine hundred year old communal CD player resides, still crackling out a radio broadcast when first turned on. A sweet, slow melody swims through the seats, brushing its fingers over the high ceilings of the theater, as the boy moves to the center of the stage.

  
Considering the fact that he spends a good amount of his life at this theater, observing the constant string of rehearsals, Brady has witnessed plenty of ballet dancers honing their craft, performing long and intricate routines, but none of them even come close to this dancer. He can’t seem to look away from the way he appears to fold gravity into putty in his hands to accommodate each move, leaping in spanning arcs and twirling enough to make Brady’s own head spin and moving his body in a way that shouldn’t be possible. He lifts up onto his toes, every muscle in his legs on full display through his thin athletic tights, grace dripping from his fingertips. Brady forgets how to breathe.

 

The boy finishes his piece on the tips of his ballet shoes, raising a leg behind him, his arms outstretched towards the invisible audience. Brady grips the clipboard to refrain from clapping. The mystery dancer reaches down to press repeat on the CD player, and he does the routine all over again, rewinding a couple of times to perfect a move that Brady had already thought was flawless, but somehow he does it impossibly better, even more graceful, than before.

 

Eventually, the dancer collects his belongings and disappears into the wing, dimming the stage lights as he goes, and it feels like he takes all of the air in the theater with him. Brady is left stuck to the edge of seat, unable to focus on his notes for the rest of the night.

 

-

 

It becomes a routine, when Brady comes in late enough, just around eleven the stage lights will flicker on and the dancer will appear on the stage. Sometimes he’ll practice the same piece that Brady had seen that first night, but other times he’ll work on faster ones that leave both him and Brady out of breath.

 

One night, weeks after the first time he’d seen him, the dancer arrives at the same time as every other night. He sits in front of the CD player to stretch, one leg folded under him and the other extended out to the side, reaching out to grab his toes and touching his nose to his knee. When he presses play, no sound comes out. He presses a few more buttons, with no success. Brady can hear the sounds of frustration from the light booth, and in a moment of bravery he rises from his seat and winds down the stairs, leading to the floor of the auditorium. He approaches the front of the stage slowly.

 

“Do you, uh, need some help with that?” Brady asks ever so eloquently, voice breaking on the second syllable because that is  _ just _ his luck. The dancer startles, head snapping up to meet Brady’s eyes and- oh. He’s, like, really pretty up close. He looks fragile, almost, wrapped in an old sweatshirt about three sizes too big, but Brady knows better, having laid witness to the strength in his legs, his core.

 

“Oh, um, yeah, thank you.” The dancer gives him a shy smile and Brady feels a little lightheaded. Brady opens the top, inspects the disc, and places it back into the disc drive. He can feel the boy’s eyes on him and tries to ignore it, heat rising in his face. He presses a few more buttons, but the CD player stays silent. Brady frowns, scratching his head.

 

“I think it might’ve just died on us.” Brady tells him, pretending not to watch the boy unfold his leg from under himself and stretch into a full split, pointing his toes. “It’s like, at least a hundred years old, so.” The dancer sighs, touching his elbows to the ground, and Brady can’t help it as his eyes widen a little.

 

“Shit. I can leave, then. I can’t really rehearse without it.” The boy lets his chest kiss the floor and kind of ruins Brady’s life in that moment. Brady shakes his head, again removing the disc from the CD player.

 

“I work tech here, I can play it over the speakers. If- if you want.” He offers, watching the dancer sit up. He has a wide smile on his face as he brings his legs around to stretch out in front of him.

 

“Wait, actually? That would be great. Are you sure? I don’t want to keep you or anything.” The dancer worries his lip, folding forwards to grab his feet again but holding his head up to keep eye contact with Brady.

 

“Yeah, you’re good. I’m usually here late anyway.” He assures him, bracing himself on the stage as the boy lays on his back and begins to pull his leg up until his toes are touching the floor by his head. Before Brady can stop himself, he blurts out a, “holy shit.” The dancer chuckles, letting his leg drop back to its normal position and sitting up once again.

 

“I get that a lot. It isn’t all that impressive, every dancer can do it.” He says, like bending himself in half is an everyday activity for the average human being. “It’s a fun party trick, though. I’m Quinn.” He holds his hand out for Brady to shake, playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Brady gives the hand a gentle shake.

 

“Brady, nice to meet you.” Quinn nods, laying back down and bringing his other leg flat against his chest in the same stretch as before. Brady shakes his head and clutches the CD in his hands, remembering why he had come down here in the first place. “I’ll go queue this up for you.” He turns and retreats to the light booth with burnt, rosy cheeks.

 

-

 

They fall into a rhythm, Brady keeps the CD for Quinn, and whenever he shows up Brady plays it for him, lets it run through the tracks. They rarely talk those nights, Quinn just waves up at the light booth when he’s ready and Brady presses play, continuing with script notes. Sometimes, he’ll just bring his laptop and work on homework until Quinn is done, if he has no tech work- and therefore no real reason to be there- that night. But no one needs to know about that.

 

Brady learns the timestamps that Quinn likes to go back to, to repeat certain sections of the piece, assuring him that no, it isn’t too much to ask, because he does it regularly for just about every rehearsal that gets held in the theater.

 

“Tech seems like so much work.” Quinn tells him one night, when he had found his way up to the light booth to get the CD back from Brady, because he needed it for some showcase he’s supposedly doing that weekend. He sits backwards in one of the chairs, resting his chin on his arms, that sit folded on the back of his seat. Brady shrugs, scratching out one of his notes on a new thespians script he’d gotten the day before.

 

“Ballet seems like so much work.” He counters because, seriously, tech might be stressful but it’s a walk in the park compared to the shit that Quinn does in his late night rehearsals. Brady can’t even imagine what he has to do in actual practices and shit. “I don’t know how you do it, man. I should be used to this kinda stuff by now, but you’re, just like, really fucking good. You have to be a prodigy, or something.” Quinn laughs, but it comes out a little stunted. He presses his face into his sleeve.

 

“Tell that to my professor.” He says wistfully, voice muffled by the fabric of his sweatshirt. “He doesn’t pay attention to anyone except this Swedish dick in my form class.” Bitterness closes in around Quinn’s voice, but it dissolves as quickly as it appears. “I shouldn’t say that, he’s actually a super nice guy. Super talented, too. But really, really rich, so he gets some major ass-kissing from all of the instructors.”

 

“That sucks.” Brady empathizes, pressing his lips together in a tight line. He doesn’t know what else to say, as they plunge into silence, but he doesn’t want the conversation to end, doesn’t want Quinn to leave. “Where’s your showcase this weekend?”

 

“It’s at some high school like an hour away, I’m not really too sure.” He answers with a yawn, scrubbing at his eyes with his knuckles. Sleep seems to be weaving its way through his eyelashes, and Brady suddenly becomes very aware of the time, as well as the fact that not everyone is wired to work until the early hours of the morning. Not everyone has given up a healthy sleep schedule for crew. “I should get going. I have a morning class tomorrow.” Quinn says, as he blinks slowly at the clock.

 

“Want me to walk you back to your dorm?” Brady asks before he can stop himself, kind of wanting the floor to swallow him whole right now, as Quinn eyes him with a bit of confusion on his face. They don’t really know each other well enough to be considered friends, more like acquaintances with a most likely unrequited attraction on Brady’s end. Nonetheless, Quinn smiles, slow and warm, letting his chin rest in his hand.

 

“That’d be cool, yeah. If I go alone I might actually fall asleep on the sidewalk or something.” Quinn chuckles, dragging himself up out of his chair and tucking his CD into his bag, waiting for Brady to turn off all of the lights. They exit the theater in silence, Brady locking the stage door before they begin their walk. It’s cold out, but Brady feels inexplicably warm as he falls in step next to the dancer on their way back to his building.

 

Quinn lives across campus from Brady, but he can’t find it in him to care when Quinn says goodbye at his door, letting his fingers wrap gently around Brady’s forearm as he thanks him, eyelids heavy with sleep when he closes the door behind him. It leaves Brady with a stupid grin on his face as he stares at the numbered plaque next to Quinn’s door.

 

-

 

Brady’s stage manager texts him about some last minute rehearsal coming up for a recital being hosted at the theater, requesting that he stop by to talk to the professor hosting the recital about what he requires tech-wise, and because crew already owns Brady’s entire ass, he agrees to come.

 

When he arrives at the theater, the stage is crowded with a bunch of people arranged in rows, each doing individual stretches and Brady’s heart nearly leaps up his throat. It’s a fucking dance recital, is what it is. A man with thin-framed glasses perched at the end of his nose and a black turtleneck stands at the front of the stage, observing the dancers, and he just  _ screams _ pretentious. Brady has to refrain from rolling his eyes.

 

“Are you the tech boy?” The man asks when he approaches, voice heavy with an accent he can’t place. French, maybe. Brady nods, shaking hands with the man, and introduces himself. “Great to meet you, Brandon. I am Professor Dupont.” Brady suppresses a sigh and settles in as the professor begins his long, hard-to-follow speech about what he needs out of the tech crew. Luckily, Brady thinks he’s figured what he wants by the time he finally escapes Dupont when the professor gets distracted with criticizing someone’s form. Brady turns to leave, when he hears someone calling his name.

 

“Psst, Brady!” He hears, an obvious stage whisper that catches his attention. He looks up and he sees Quinn, standing at the end of the second row, his left hand in an ‘okay’ symbol below his waist, thumb and forefinger pinched together. Brady groans to himself, rolling his eyes, but can’t help it when he breaks out into a smile. He just waves at Quinn, who’s now cracking up as he stretches his arms. Brady moves closer to the front of the stage as the professor yells at them to take five, and Quinn hurries forwards. He crouches down in front of Brady, the grin on his face draped in mischief. “What’re you doing here?”

 

“I’m working sound for your recital now I guess. Jen asked me to, and you don’t say no to your stage manager. I didn’t know she meant a dance recital.” Brady explains, pointedly not noticing Quinn’s toned shoulders and arms under the tank top he’s wearing. The dancer nods gravely, running a hand through his hair.

 

“Yeah, this is like the biggest part of our grade for the semester. People get tickets and come watch but Dupont sits front row and takes notes the whole show.” Quinn informs him, resting his hands on his knees as he spreads his legs a little and stretches his hips, which, unfair. His thighs kind of look like they’re about to break the seams on his sweatpants and Brady is being  _ affected. _ “What’d you think of Dupont?”

 

“He’s, uh, an interesting guy.” Brady says carefully, not wanting to offend Quinn or anything, but judging by the look on the dancer’s face, he isn’t the guy’s biggest fan either. “He kind of looks like Steve Jobs.” Quinn snorts, covering his mouth so that he doesn’t start laughing too loudly, and Brady’s heart takes off running.

 

“He does, doesn’t he? He’s fucking crazy, man. But he’s a wicked dancer, so.” Quinn shrugs, leaning forwards a little that makes Brady nervous he’s going to tip over, but he stays perfectly balanced. “Dude, he isn’t even  _ French _ . He’s from, like, Montana.” He whispers conspiratorially, smirk present on his face. Brady raises his eyebrows, in a look that’s probably a cross between amused and painfully fond. He attempts to cool his expression, but isn’t sure how successful he is. Brady opens his mouth to say something, but Dupont interrupts him.

 

“Alright, people, break over.” He calls, surveying the stage. He catches Quinn, giving the two of them a disapproving look that Brady has probably seen from his own mother a few times. “Brock, I hope you aren’t distracting my dancers.” Brady apologizes while Quinn hurries back to his place, sparing the dancer one last glance once Dupont has turned away. He grins and Quinn waves at him, before giving the professor his full attention. Brady feels giddy as he leaves, like he’d just gotten caught passing notes to his crush back in elementary school and he’d narrowly avoided the teacher reading them out loud. He can’t help but look back over his shoulder a few times as he goes.

 

-

 

Over the next month, Brady finds himself drifting back to Quinn every time. He sees him at rehearsals, penned up in the light booth as Quinn takes control of the stage, whether that be in a solo piece or in the third row of a group piece, supporting the weight of a beautiful ballerina in a graying ballet slippers and yoga pants. 

 

He sees him in the random Snaps he receives throughout the day, usually just of the top half of Quinn’s face or a spot on the ceiling. Sometimes, if Brady’s lucky, he’ll get a more elaborate picture posed in front of a mirror, Quinn staring moodily at his phone, seated on the floor and his jawline sharp and pronounced. It takes Brady a few tries to send a reply that doesn’t show the red in his cheeks.

 

Brady’s favorite times that he sees Quinn, however, are still on those late nights in the theater, weaving their ways back into the silent heartbeat of the building, an unspoken acknowledgment of each other’s presence, an appreciation of company. The way Quinn dances when he thinks no one is watching- less careful, feet lighter without the weight of an audience- Brady finds it hard to look away, he can see the freedom held in his posture. He lives off of those nights.

 

The recital falls right in the middle of the crew’s stretch of shows for that semester, meaning Brady and the rest of his crew are running on watered down light booth coffee and about three hours of sleep, but they’re getting through it.

 

On the night before the show, Quinn knocks on the door to the light booth, after Brady had thought he’d left, stage lights long turned off and the music had stopped, played through until it had reached the end. The dancer’s breathes are shaky and he sounds a little wrecked, as he lays on the ground near Brady’s feet and throws an arm over his face. At first he thinks he’s imagining it when he hears Quinn’s uneven breathes turn into hiccups, but Brady lets him ride it out before saying something, keeping his voice low.

 

“Quinn? You okay, buddy?” He asks gently, nudging the dancer’s side with his foot, which draws out a twitch of Quinn’s torso as he rolls away. Brady doesn’t get an answer at first, just a heavy sigh that passes through Quinn’s hands.

 

“I’m so fucked for tomorrow.” He mumbles, and Brady frowns. He certainly doesn’t believe that he’s fucked in any capacity, but Brady can sympathize with night-before breakdowns, feeling like nothing is coming together right, like the muscle memory just won’t kick in and you’re stuck sitting there with your hands hovering over the soundboard while your brain struggles to comprehend any of the notes you had stuck to the panel. Brady sighs and slides out of his chair, laying down next to Quinn in the cramped space of unoccupied floor. The worn carpet scratches against the back of his neck as he rolls to get as comfortable as one can on a floor.

 

“You aren’t fucked. You’ve been working on this shit for, like, months. It looks great, you’re gonna do just fine.” He tells Quinn as he stares up at the scuffed ceiling, listening to the dancer’s hiccups and the shuffling of his movements as he rolls towards Brady, face pressing into Brady’s shoulder. He pretends not to notice the tears soaking into his sleeve.

 

“Thank you.” Quinn manages, voice cracking into a whisper, already muffled by the fabric of Brady’s shirt. They lay there for a while, letting the minutes tick by, until the harsh red numbers glaring at them from the overhead clock drift back into single digits.

 

-

 

Brady, unfortunately, doesn’t get to see Quinn before the show, but he does send him a lame good luck text, which gets left on delivered as the dancer is probably warming up and changing. He worries his lip as Josh dims the lights, shooting him a concerned look.

 

“You good? I’m surprised this show has you so freaked out, this is easy compared to the rest of our gigs this month.” He points out, as Dupont steps up onto the stage to deliver his opening speech. Brady had offered to keep the house lights up for it, but the professor had insisted on a spotlight. Brady should have been less surprised.

 

“Yeah, I’m just beat.” Brady lies, hoping that Josh doesn’t notice the breath he’s holding, lungs burning beneath his ribcage. He watches as the spotlight fades and the curtain draws open, adjusting his headset as his palms sweat against his jeans.

 

As the show progresses, Brady goes through the motions with no problems, stomach swooping each time he checks the program to see who’s in the next piece. Quinn’s group piece comes up before he knows it, six dancers filing onto the stage. Brady can’t keep his eyes off of Quinn, dressed in tight pants and a tighter shirt, displaying every muscle in the dancer’s body, powder caked into his skin and glitter brushed across his cheeks that sparkles when he steps into the light. And that’s just the beginning.

 

Predictably, Quinn crushes it, melting into his partner as they move as one alongside the other two pairs. He lands every jump in perfect time and manages to make his partner look weightless as she glides above him, supported by only his hands. Brady almost misses his cue, dazzled by the way Quinn had danced, the amount of grace and gentility behind every movement. Josh nudges him as the next group sets up, wide smirk on his face.

 

“A little distracted there, bud?” He chuckles, and it’s all Brady can do is laugh weakly and give a faint smile in return.

 

He recovers, by the end of the next performance, having scrubbed at his eyes until he sees fireworks under his eyelids and focuses all of his attention onto listening for his cues and pressing the right buttons. He’s back to normal when a familiar opening chord rings through the auditorium: Quinn’s solo piece.

 

The music he had chosen is a rich, silky choral piece with warm harmonies that melt into the air like honey and resonate as the voices move onward, blending as one. Quinn lets his movement match that, every move and stretch of the body slow and smooth, seamlessly transitioning into the gliding jumps, where Quinn looks as though he hangs in the air. Lifting onto his toes, he steps carefully, rhythmically, capturing Brady’s eyes and dragging them along with every stride he takes.

 

Quinn tells the story that the voices are only able to express limitedly, a story that Brady previously would never have witnessed without Quinn to help guide the words. He moves with such emotion and power in each step, wrapping the entire audience around his pinky finger as he spins.

 

At the climax of the song, Quinn pushes off from the ground and flies through the air, spinning in a way that should be impossible, yet Quinn effortlessly molds gravity into what he needs it to be. The music swells, caressing the dancer’s body with each push and pull of the voices tumbling through the speakers. He spins silk at the end of his fingertips and threads it into the air as he dances, stealing Brady’s breath away.

 

The performance seems to last a lifetime and be over before he knows it at the same time, Quinn ending with a flourish of his arms and his feet pointing towards the wings of the stage. A hush falls over the audience, as the final notes of the song fade to a hum, Brady would have been able to hear a pin drop from all the way up in the light booth. Then it’s all applause, not nearly enough to do it justice, and Brady almost swallows his tongue when Josh jostles him to reach over and dim the stage lights for him. 

 

Brady can barely think the rest of the night, unable to comprehend the delicacy of Quinn’s piece. The emotion of his performance still hangs in the air as the next piece, a duet, makes their way out onto the stage.

 

-

 

Brady lingers around the doors that lead into the auditorium once the house lights have been faded on and everything in the booth has been turned off for the night, Josh abandoning him to go flirt with the girl working the table selling cookies in the lobby of the theater.

 

He scrolls through his phone to kill time, knowing that it could be awhile before Quinn pushes his way through the crowd, but nothing interesting has happened on his social media since he had last checked it, except a couple of random memes from Matt in his DMs. He glances up to scan the lobby, but has yet to spot anyone from the show. Instead, Brady’s eyes catch on a table selling bouquets, and as a sudden surge of bravery courses through his chest, Brady gets an idea.

 

When Quinn finally appears at the door, drowning in a shirt way too big for him and sweatpants that have to be rolled up at the waist a few times, glitter still spattered across his cheekbones, Brady is standing on the outskirts of the crowd, clutching a bouquet of flowers. The thorny stems dig into his palms but he can’t calm the beating in his chest. Quinn makes his way towards him, claiming the empty space on the wall next to him.

 

“Brady! Hi, great job with tech tonight!” Quinn greets, maneuvering around the flowers to tuck himself into Brady’s side for a quick hug, careful not to crush the blossoms wrapped in flimsy plastic. Brady shrugs, face turned a rosy pink. Quinn looks even prettier now, brilliant grin and hairline beading with sweat, mixing with the stage makeup and glitter to make him sparkle.

 

“I think I should be the one complimenting you! You were amazing out there.” Brady has to bite his tongue to stop himself from gushing, instead pushing the bouquet towards Quinn’s chest. “Oh, uh, I got these for you.” Brady says bashfully, scratching the back of his neck. It’s Quinn’s turn to turn red. His eyes widen as he takes the flowers, staring at the petals, before he looks up at Brady with a wide grin.

 

“Thanks, Brady.” He says, a little dreamily, closing his eyes as he breathes in to smell the flowers, eyelashes fanning out over his cheeks, making Brady’s head spin. The dancer looks up through his lashes, leaning against the wall. Quinn lets his hand rest on his bicep, leaning up onto his toes. He presses his lips to Brady’s cheek. When he drops back down to his heels, his eyelids flutter open.

 

“Listen, Quinn, I li-“ Brady begins, before he can stop himself, but he’s interrupted by a cutesy, high-pitched voice coming from in front of them.

 

“Sorry to interrupt, but Dupont is giving out scores.” A girl in a sleek bun tells Quinn, fiddling with the rings on her finger. Quinn’s eyes widen, and he looks back at Brady apologetically.

 

“Hold that thought, I’ll be right back.” He disappears into the theater, leaving Brady standing shellshocked in the lobby, hand hovering over the skin of his cheek that Quinn had kissed, only moments ago. His heart is hammering against his chest, rattling his ribs. He grips the hem of his shirt to still his shaking fingers. Thoughts tearing through his brain, Brady builds his confidence up only to tear it down again in fear of rejection, then building it up once more and gathering every scrap of bravery in his chest, a vicious cycle that curls through Brady’s head.

 

Quinn, as promised, appears by his side shortly after he had slipped away, drawing Brady out of his thoughts with a gentle hand on his shoulder, grounding and featherlight. He looks like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin.

 

“How’d it go?” He asks casually, like his world isn’t temporarily crashing around him, and Quinn lets out an honest to God  _ squeak. _ He throws his arms around Brady’s neck, feet lifting off of the ground. Brady chuckles, stumbling back against the wall in surprise, but gathers his bearings pretty quickly, winding his arms around the dancer’s slim waist. “I’m gonna guess it was good?” He asks into Quinn’s neck as he lets his feet hit the ground once again.

 

“Fuckin’ aced it!” Quinn exclaims, fingers clutching at the fabric of Brady’s shirt as he pulls away enough to look up at him. Brady beams warmly down at him, unsurprised by the good marks. Anyone who can feel would have been able to sense the awe buzzing through the theater, the entire audience leaning forwards on the edge of their seats, while Quinn had danced.

 

“Told you. Still proud of you, though.” Brady tells him, hands sliding from off of Quinn’s hips, but the dancer’s fingers catch on his sleeves, holding him no farther than an arm’s length. Brady takes a deep breath and melts bravery into his veins, looking Quinn directly in the eyes. “What I was trying to tell you earlier, was that I really like you, and maybe ask you to grab dinner with me later?”

 

Quinn doesn’t technically answer, but Brady is too distracted with the press of his lips against his own, noses bumping together ungracefully as their lips move with each other. Nimble fingers crawl up to cup Brady’s jaw, pulling his face closer and closer. They keep it short and sweet, keeping in mind the surrounding crowd.

 

Brady reluctantly pulls away to give his lungs a break, holding onto the hem of Quinn’s t-shirt as he keeps his head ducked, tracing the curve of his lips with his gaze, counting his freckles. Quinn giggles, brushing a thumb over Brady’s cheekbone.

 

“You have glitter on your face.” He whispers playfully, tongue peeking through his teeth in a grin. He takes a step back, adjusting the strap of his bag, elbow narrowly missing the bouquet tucked into the opening of the bag with care. Brady smiles, reaching out for one of Quinn’s hands. “Yes, by the way, I’d love to grab dinner with you. In case, you know, that didn’t tip you off.” He gestures between them, and Brady laughs.

 

“Yeah, no, I figured.” Brady responds, tugging him in by the strings of his sweatpants. “New plan, we go make out in the light booth and then I take you to Denny’s because it’s almost ten.” Quinn’s eyes light up, honey brown complimenting the pretty pink traveling under his freckles.

 

“Wow, I didn’t take you for such a  _ romantic. _ You really know how to make a boy feel special.” He teases, and Brady just shrugs. His phone buzzes in his pocket and when he glances down at the screen, a text is waiting for him at the top of his notifications.

 

_ joshy<3: get a room u two _

 

Brady laughs, looking up towards the spot where he had last previously seen Josh, where he still stands, pointing to the back of his throat to mime a gag. And, well, who is Brady to refuse, turning back towards Quinn and grabbing his hand, warmth spreading in his chest as they fumble back into the theater, tripping over themselves as they take the stairs two at a time, letting the door slam behind them. Brady pulls him into his lap and lets Quinn kiss him silly on the couch near the back of the booth, taking their time as hands wander, smoothing over clothes. Quinn’s bag lays abandoned on the floor by the doorway. They take it slow, they’ve got all the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> i have a tumblr!! come chat with me about these sweet hockey boys(or any for that matter): [starryandersen](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/starryandersen)


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